Roll Along Remix
by Simplexious
Summary: After suffering an amnesia inducing injury, Pockets awakes to discover that he has no recollection of who he was prior to the incident. With no direction in life and no past to guide him, he is forced to find his own way in a strange new world where subjugation is law and rollerskating is much more than just a hobby...
1. The Devil's Contract - Track 1

_Author's Note: This story is a reimagining of Roll Along, a story that I wrote several years ago. If you have not already read the original, I would strongly suggest you **DO NOT** go back and read it as it may have significant spoilers to the plot of this story. Roll Along Remix will not closely follow the storyline of the original, however, there will be several details that are similar. Thank you for reading and reviews are always appreciated._

* * *

 ** _Chapter 1_**

Several unfamiliar faces stood over him as he laid in a puddle of rainwater. Staring up into the gray sky, he could only make out silhouettes of his onlookers. A few of them held cell phones up to their ears. One offered to help him onto his feet once they realized he was conscious but he was too confused to accept at the moment. He was cold and his jacket was soaked to the point that it had become effectively useless. His head throbbed periodically which lead him to believe that it was an injury that put him in this position. The throbbing turned to pounding as he tried to peel his aching body off of the hard concrete. Rolling over onto his belly, he could now see why he attracted such a large crowd. He was sprawled out in the middle of the street, almost stopping traffic entirely. Several people had exited their cars in order find out if he was okay. They must not have known what to do when they discovered he was actually awake. Most of them just sat there astonished and occasionally gasping whenever he made a move. They watched anxiously as he struggled to get his knee underneath him. He quickly discovered why his legs felt so heavy. A pair of rollerblades were strapped to his feet, making it even more difficult for him to pull himself up onto his feet.

Just as he finally stood up completely, a figure darted out from the surrounding crowd and seized him by the shoulders. Still too disoriented to do anything about it, he allowed himself to be pushed forward. The crowd opened a path for the two of them as they rolled off of the street and out of the way of traffic. Once he was safely on the sidewalk, he turned to face his abductor. It was a young guy wearing tinted shades with green hair and a greenish shortsleeve sweater to match.

"I know you're hurt," The green guy said. "But you gotta get out of here before the cops show up."

Ignoring the strange guy's advice, the injured skater took a seat against a nearby building. He was still drenched with rainwater and shivering. Moreover, he had no idea where he was. Tall, unremarkable buildings surrounded him. The street appeared to stretch on indefinitely in both directions with no recognizable landmarks in sight. It seemed this was his first time ever being in this area, yet he could not figure out why he was here.

"Yo, did you hear me?" The guy asked, interrupting his thought process. "I said the cops are gonna be here!" The green guy stood over the skater urgently, but the lazy skater was unmoved. He just sat there, shivering furiously with his freezing hands stuffed into his pants. His head swiveled occasionally as he tried to no avail to get a sense of his surroundings.

"Do you speak? What's your name?" The green guy asked as if he was talking to a child. The skater stared up at him intently for a moment.

"What's yours?" He asked.

"They call me Yoyo," The green haired guy said.

"I'm Pockets," The quivering skater replied almost mockingly.

"Pockets?" Yoyo repeated. "You make that up just now?"

"Yeah…"

Yoyo grabbed Pockets by his wrist and pulled him to his feet. He was strong for his size. Pockets stumbled a little as he regained his balance with some assistance from Yoyo. Once he was steady, he let him go.

"Are you okay? Can you skate?" Yoyo asked. "You don't got a concussion or nothing do you?"

Pockets took a couple of steps to test his balance. Even with wheels on his feet he could walk just fine. In fact, it felt completely natural. His body compensated seamlessly as he rolled with each step. After he felt confident enough in his mobility, he turned to Yoyo and shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Good," Yoyo replied. "'Cause we gotta get going now. If anybody called the police, they're gonna be looking for you. But I got a place where we can go." He signalled for Pockets to follow and the two of them began to head down the unending street.

As they made their way to an undisclosed destination, Pockets attempted to make sense of the situation. He couldn't remember where he was or what day it was. He couldn't even remember what his real name was and that alone was almost enough to send him into a panic, but for now he remained calm. He focused on following the strange green haired guy in front of him, but the emptiness that filled his mind was unsettling. No matter how hard he tried to dig around for some sort of clue as to who he was or how he ended up here, he could find nothing. It was frustrating at best. To make matters even worse, he had nothing on him. No wallet, no cell phone, not even any money. All he had were the skates on his feet, the clothes on his back, and a soggy jacket.

Suddenly, Yoyo stopped seemingly in the middle of nowhere. "We're here," he proclaimed, though the scenery had barely changed from where they started. They still stood amidst rows of tall unremarkable buildings all huddled so closely to one another it was hard to distinguish where one ended and the next began. Yet, there was one that looked much different from the others. The one Yoyo stood in front of was shorter than the rest, and rather than a single door for an entrance, there were two large garage doors instead. The entire front of the building was covered in spray paint. Huge blocky letters adorned the top of the building, however most of the letters were now missing and the ones that remained spelled out "G_ & G_'s Garage". There was no mistaking that this was the place Yoyo was referring to.

Yoyo pounded viciously on one of the service garage doors, making a loud clanging noise that made Pockets' ears ring. There was a harsh mechanical noise and then the door began to slide up to reveal a man dressed in a grey jacket and jeans waiting there with arms outstretched. "Where's the pizza?" he asked.

"No pizza," Yoyo replied snappily as he lead Pockets inside past the man. Loud music flooded the interior and there was more paint on the inside walls than there was on the outside. The old service garage had been turned into somewhat of a hangout spot decorated with couches, arcade games, and speakers in just about every corner.

As they made their way past several other equally colorful individuals, Pockets could feel their eyes bearing down on him, scrutinizing him no doubt. "Who are these guys?" He asked Yoyo.

"The GG's. I thought you would've figured that out by now."

"Never heard of them..."

Yoyo stared at him with a single eyebrow raised disconcertedly. "You've never heard of the GG's?" He found his way over to one of the large speakers and hopped up onto it, taking a seat on the edge. "Well we're a pretty famous gang, the cops don't mess with us. Not since we took out Gouji." Yoyo found a can of soda sitting on the ground next to the speaker and picked it up, popped it open and took a long swig. He offered some to Pockets but he refused. Instead, the still dizzy skater took a seat next to Yoyo.

"Gang?" Pockets asked.

Yoyo flashed a proud grin from behind those red tinted shades. "Yeah, yo," He boasted as he waved an arm across the width of the garage. "This is our little hideout. It's pretty comfy and you won't have to worry about the cops as long as you stay here."

Pockets began to feel a little uneasy. As much as he didn't want to end up becoming affiliated with a gang, especially one so allegedly infamous, he had nowhere else to go. Staying here was likely his best option, at least until his memory returned. Still, he knew he didn't belong, and he knew the others knew too. So then why was Yoyo so insistent that he stay? Before he could finish that thought, Yoyo launched off of the speaker, tossing aside the empty can in the same motion. "You gotta meet some people before I let you stay here though."

Great… Pockets wasn't looking forward to whatever questions they would have for him. In his present state he really couldn't answer much of anything. He followed Yoyo anyway, making his way across the garage once again until they found themselves in front of a crimson couch that seated what he presumed were two of the other gang members. The first was Corn, the same man from before wearing the grey jacket and bright yellow undershirt. Stark blonde tufts of hair peeked out from underneath a baseball cap pulled so tightly onto his head that it was hard to make out his eyes under the shade of the visor. Next to him was Gum, a girl with similarly brightly colored hair chewing laboriously on her namesake. She wore a tight fitting, short green dress with a neckline that plunged down almost to her belly button, revealing most of her chest. Her captivating face was beset by a malicious gaze that dared Pockets to so much as glance at anything below her neck.

"Who is this?" The man, who was called Corn, spoke first. "And where's the pizza I ordered?"

Yoyo began to explain, "You remember how you said we needed to do recruiting? Well I found this guy and I thought he would make a good fit. His name is Pockets."

Corn sunk deeper into the couch cushion as he examined the potential new addition in front of him. Pockets could do nothing but stand there, looking lost most likely, until Corn spoke again. "Alright. He's in."

"Wait, what!?" The girl interjected, leaning forward now in her seat. "You're just gonna let him in just like that? No test of skill? How do you even know we can trust him?"

"Let's take a chance," Corn suggested.

"You're getting sloppy, Corn," Gum scoffed and threw herself back into her seat with her arms folded, pouting as she blew a large pink bubble. Yoyo, on the other hand, was ecstatic. His lips peeled back into a wide grin.

With Corn's approval Pockets was now free to stay at the garage, though that didn't stop the other GG's from shooting him suspicious looks. It seemed they all wanted to test the new guy. Pockets found a secluded corner and took a seat on the floor of the renovated service garage. The warm air inside finally afforded him a chance to remove his still damp jacket. He set it down next to himself and let his head fall back against the wall. The minor impact was enough to stir up a violent headache that made him clasp his temples with his hands painfully. He was still suffering from the after effects of his recent head trauma and the pounding bass speakers, which were strategically positioned so that you could never be more than fifteen feet away from at least one, weren't helping either.

A few minutes later, Yoyo returned again with an excited look painted on his face. "Ready to make some money?" He asked, crouching down in front of Pockets.

The GG's new recruit released his throbbing temples to look Yoyo square in his red shades. Although the shades blocked out his eyes completely, Pockets swore he could still see them gleaming devilishly through the heavily tinted lenses. Nevertheless, Pockets needed money. Until now, he hadn't given it much thought, but he currently had no way of feeding himself. He was lucky enough to find a place to stay, but the rest of his basic needs had yet to be covered and he desperately needed a shower after having laid in a dirty puddle in the middle of the street for who knows how long. He smelled of wet concrete. "How exactly?" He asked.

Yoyo tossed Pockets a little, square box as if to answer his question. It was wrapped in brown paper quite sloppily, likely done by hand. Scribbled on the top in black permanent marker was a barely legible address. It felt empty. Pockets shook the box and it rattled as if it contained yet another box inside. "What is this?"

"This is how we make money around here," Yoyo explained. "Sometimes, people need things delivered… illegal things. That's where you come in. You get it there safe; no cops; no paper trail. You'll get paid on delivery. The money's pretty good."

Pockets studied the box briefly. It was just barely too big to fit in his jacket pocket and the shoddy make of it would probably arouse suspicion, but the job didn't seem too difficult otherwise. Not so bad for a first gig. "Seems pretty easy…"

"Woah…" Yoyo said as he took the box away from Pockets. "It's far from easy. Did I mention this is illegal? If the cops see you on skates carrying a package, they're gonna be all over you"

"Couldn't I just walk, then?"

Yoyo placed a finger on his chin as if he never entertained such a preposterous idea. He stared up at the ceiling through dark plastic lenses for a few moments while he worked out the viability of Pockets' revolutionary strategy. "I guess that could work," he concluded. "But, a lot of these deliveries take you way across the city; you'd be walking forever. Plus, the other gangs aren't gonna be happy about you pushing shit in their territory. You're gonna need your skates if they catch you."

"Fair points," Pockets agreed as Yoyo handed the package back to him. "But how am I supposed to find this address? I don't have a GPS or—"

"Oh right!" Yoyo interrupted him. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small black device that looked a lot like a watch, only it had an electronic display in place of a clock face. He handed it to Pockets. "Now you're an official rudie, yo. That's our standard issue wrist radio. You can talk to me or any of the other GG's with it as long as you're on our frequency. It also has GPS. It plays music too, of course."

"Cool," Pockets spoke as he fastened the fancy watch to his wrist. The rectangular screen lit up with digital numbers that displayed the current time. A small dial on the side brought up a menu when turned that gave access to the features that Yoyo mentioned along with a few others.

"Just don't break it," Yoyo instructed nervously as he watched Pockets fiddle with the device. "That's actually Corn's spare, and these things aren't cheap."

"Right…"


	2. Track 2

_Chapter 2_

"Wake up," Yoyo barked at the new recruit, throwing a package at his feet. "You got another run to make."

Pockets stretched briefly before peeling himself up off of the couch. A sharp pain in his neck prevented his head from turning too far to one side. He cursed the uncomfortable couch silently. "Already…?" He moaned through a yawn. He had been putting up with this for a little over three weeks now: waking up at the crack of dawn just about every day to deliver packages. Some days he would have as much as four deliveries to make before he could retire for the night and Yoyo was right; these runs were no walk in the park. He had to learn to lay low when the cops were around and move fast when he spotted another rudie he didn't recognize. So far he had managed to avoid any trouble, save for a few squabbles with the police. Because of Rokkaku, the law enforcement never carried guns. No one in Tokyo was permitted to have firearms, which made dealing with the police a bit of a breeze for someone on skates unless there were just too many of them.

Dealing with rudies was another story entirely. In the absence of conventional weaponry, the local street punks took to using rocket powered skates to fight with instead. Thus, the roller skating gangs of Tokyo were born. Over the years, they developed their unique form of hand-to-hand combat into a dance-like martial art. Yoyo started to teach Pockets the basics of it, but it wasn't something you learned over night. It was very intricate, and took a lot of skill. It would take much longer than a few weeks to master but Pockets was making good progress. Although the fundamentals were fairly effective against the police, Yoyo warned him it wouldn't be enough to save him in a fight with any of the other gangs. Luckily for Pockets, he was fast—and remarkably so. The busted up black blades that he wore weren't even capable of performing a boost dash like the more modern variety, but he was somehow still able to outrun everyone who had attempted to catch him so far.

The garage was usually pretty empty in the mornings. The other GG's all had homes to go to. Pockets was the only one who couldn't afford his own place, so he stayed overnight. Sometimes he would have the company of a few others who had been partying a little too hard and passed out on the floor, but aside from that, it was just him most nights. The other GG's normally don't start showing up until after noon. So why was Yoyo here so early?

"It's still dark…" Pockets complained. "Can I do it later?"

"No this one's priority," said Yoyo.

Pockets lifted an eyebrow. "Since when do we do priority shipping?"

"They're paying extra."

That caught Pockets' attention. "Okay," he said as he took the package from Yoyo. This one was different. It wasn't the normal, shoddily wrapped brown paper wrapping that he had come to expect. This box was clean, white, and sealed to professional standards almost as if it had come straight off of a shipping truck. It was heavier than the other ones, too. Pockets rotated it, scanning the outside for a shipping label or something of the sort but no such thing existed. The exterior of this box was completely unmarked. "Where's the address," he asked.

Yoyo pointed to his arm. "It's in your wrist radio. Whoever ordered this one is real serious about security, yo. They wanted the address to be sent only to the carrier."

"And that's me right…" Pockets mumbled unenthusiastically as he maneuvered through the radio's menus. He noticed a new message was waiting to be opened. It had no title, just a single line of text. A few digits and a street name, that was it. "Found it," He announced. Fortunately, that was all he needed. He just had to punch the address into the GPS and he could be on his way. A few key presses later, his GPS was directing him to a building somewhere on the edge of Benten, the downtown district of Tokyo. It wasn't too far from their current location, in fact, it was fairly close to where he woke up just a few weeks ago with a pounding headache and a curious case of amnesia. An ailment that still plagued him to this day.

Pockets had been very patient with his amnesia, hoping his memories would come back on their own given a little time but that proved not to be the case. It was now three weeks later and still he couldn't even recall his own name. He was just about ready to accept that his condition might be permanent, and strangely that didn't bother him so much anymore. After all, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

After taking a moment to get his bearings together and wake fully from his nap, he grabbed the worn out pair of blades sitting next to him and inserted his feet into them, one boot at a time. He strapped them up nice and tight and stood up, subconsciously balancing his weight equally between both legs to make sure that one didn't roll out from underneath him. Yoyo patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Make sure you get it there safe," The red spectacled rudie lectured. "Remember, there's extra money in it if you do."

"Yeah yeah yeah…" Pockets mocked. He was finally getting tired of taking orders from someone younger than him. Actually, he had no idea how old Yoyo was. For that matter, he had no idea how old he himself was either. At any rate, he was tired of taking orders from someone shorter than him. That being said, he appreciated the work, and moreso, he appreciated the money. The new clothes he was wearing was incentive enough for him to keep pushing the packages. So, he grabbed the white box up off the couch, stuffed it into his new backpack, and headed out the garage door.

Every venture out into the streets was risky for a rudie, especially so for a rookie like Pockets. The rollerblades made him both a curiosity and a target in the eyes of the population. Every rudie, regardless of the gang they represented, carried the responsibility of living up to the legendary name. That meant disregarding the law whenever possible and tagging your name on any surface likely to catch a glimpse or two from a passerby. They had a reputation to uphold, they were the face of the revolution. Strong-willed, wild, and passionate; the rudies would save the city from itself, if only they could save themselves first. The same characteristics that made them so revered often put them at odds with each other. It wasn't long before their original objective—to liberate the people from the oppressive rule of the Rokkaku Group—devolved into an endless game of territorial tug-of-war. Most of the original rudies were just frustrated youths who couldn't find a place within the system anyway.

Misguided as they were, the rudies were the true heroes of Tokyo. Their paint brought soul back to the streets and their efforts eventually lead to the downfall of Gouji… At least that's what the old kook who ran Jet Set Radio would say. If Rokkaku was truly gone, then why was the city still in such dire straits? The people moped around soulless and freedom seemed to be at an all-time low. Tokyo's alleged saviors were still pushed to the brinks of society, forced to live their lives ducking the cops and doing odd jobs just to make ends meet.

So here he was, the newest addition to everyone's favorite little band of misfits, shuffling through the city at a brisk pace with package in tow; the contents of which were a mystery even to him. He knew, however, that whatever it was, being discovered with it could come with some serious legal penalties. People didn't pay at the rate he was getting paid to have flowers delivered. Just the thought of opening the box made him nervous even though he would never have to. He didn't really want to know what was inside any of his deliveries, and this was no run-of-the-mill package. Whatever was in this one, had to be worse than the rest. He was not looking forward to meeting the person who requested it.

Temporarily distracted by his own thoughts, he forgot to keep an eye out for trouble. Although it was unlikely to bump into any rudies or cops at this time of night, it was good practice to always remain vigilant on these runs. A quick survey of his surroundings told him he was still in the clear. He picked up the pace a little.

Benten was always busy in his experience. He was convinced that no one in this section of the city ever slept. But then again he had never been out and about at the ungodly hour of four o'clock in the morning. The streets were deserted and it was dead silent. He glanced down at his radio watch to discover that he was not far from his destination. Determined to get this delivery over and done with, he kicked into high gear. The wheels on his blades made a loud whirring noise as he pushed them against the pavement. And then he heard something alarming. It sounded as if his weren't the only pair of skates echoing throughout the empty alleyways.

Pockets turned both of his skates sideways and slid to a complete stop to listen. He had heard correctly. There were at least two other skaters closing in on his position. _Fuck_. He cursed himself for being so careless. Now he would have to shake his pursuers. With a single solid push, he propelled himself in the direction opposite of where the other skaters were coming from. Within just a few seconds he had already reached max speed and he was flying through the street. The wind pushing against him was so strong it almost felt as if it might just pick him up. He looked over his shoulder occasionally to make sure that they weren't gaining ground on him, but there was no sight of who was following him. It was probably Rapid 99 or the Love Shockers, he couldn't remember whose territory he was in. Either way, the last thing he wanted was to be spotted, because if they identified him, that could spark up a rivalry that would make any future deliveries in this area much more difficult. He was confident though that no one could keep up with him.

After running for what felt like the better part of an hour, he was exhausted. He pulled over in a narrow alleyway between two large buildings, next to a dumpster that smelled of decomposing animal carcasses. He almost puked, either from overexerting himself or being forced to suck in gallons of the putrid gas wafting over from the nearby waste. On the other hand, he could no longer hear the screeching of skates against concrete. He had finally lost his tail, but not before he had put himself miles off course. He took a few moments to catch his breath, then he rerouted his GPS and started off back towards the assigned drop off point.

Some time later, he was finally approaching his destination. Completely drained from both being woken too early and having to outrun some rival gang members, he barely had the stamina to make it even a few more meters. His wrist radio dinged, signalling to him that it was done giving directions, but that couldn't be possible. The address he had been given wasn't even a residence. He didn't realize it until now, but he had been following the GPS instructions mindlessly, as if by autopilot. His legs had carried him into the center of a little park, a tiny oasis in the urban sprawl that was Benten-cho. The park was bisected by a small river which in turn was divided by an even smaller wooden bridge. Pockets rolled over to the red-painted bridge and leaned his chest against the railing. He folded his arms on top of the wooden handrail and draped his head lethargically upon those. It had taken him so long to get here, the black sky was already starting to turn a deep shade of blue. He marvelled briefly at the koi fish swimming aimlessly through the water beneath him. Their colors and their smooth, winding movements were almost enough to lull him to sleep.

"So you're the GG's new errand boy now?" someone addressed him.

The abrupt and unfamiliar voice was enough to shock Pockets out of his half-conscious state. His head yanked up violently and he turned to meet his new company. It was a young woman with a slender face, long dark hair, and equally dark eyes. She wore a black leather jacket with a white undershirt and jeans. Perhaps most importantly, on her feet were a pair of skates. They were a newer model fitted with the rudie standard jets, but he had never seen a pair quite like these. The black boots reached almost halfway up to her knees and they hugged her calves like tube socks.

"I guess so," he sleepily replied to her question. Pockets wondered how he didn't notice her approaching at all. He must've been really tired. Nevertheless he removed the backpack from his shoulders so he could open it and retrieve the box from inside. For some reason, he didn't even entertain the possibility that this stranger might be hostile. She had a disarming quality about her that made Pockets automatically assume that she wasn't an agent of an opposing gang looking to make sure he never set foot in their turf again. She also wasn't the hardcore kingpin he was expecting the package belonged to but she was the only soul around as far as he could tell, and he wasn't about to wait any longer for someone else who fit his preconceptions to show up. She had to be the one for whom the package was intended.

After he dug the plain, white box out of his bag, he held it out for her. She didn't take it. She just stood there, staring at him with a look he couldn't begin to decipher. Worry? Is that what he was seeing in her eyes?

"You don't remember me?" she asked.

Pockets' heart skipped a beat. This girl knew him!? The thought of potentially having to reveal his amnesia to someone made him nervous for reasons he didn't understand—even if she was just a stranger—and there was no way around it in this situation. He couldn't even pretend he recognized her. He could only hope that they weren't close. He shook his head. "No," was his honest response.

"How could you not remember?"

Pockets shrugged ambiguously, still holding out the box for her. "Here," he offered.

"No." The girl pushed it back towards him. "It's for you."

Now he was thoroughly confused. She wanted him to keep the package for himself? He couldn't understand why she would do that. Pockets looked at her, then at the package, and then back at her. She was encouraging him nonverbally to open it. His job was to deliver it to her but it was clear at this point that she wasn't going to accept it.

"Open it," she insisted out loud.

Pockets struggled for a moment. Opening the box would be a direct violation of their very strict policy. He remembered Corn explicitly instructing him several times to never open any package intended for delivery. Although he hated it sometimes, Pockets took his job very seriously. He couldn't open it, not in good conscience. "Look," Pockets said to the woman. "I went through a lot to get this to you. Could you just take it."

"And I went through a lot to set up this meeting between us," she retorted. Although Pockets was intentionally being a little standoffish towards her, she maintained an amicable demeanor. "Open it."

But what about delivering it safely? What about the bonus pay? Against his better judgement, Pockets began to tear away the tape that sealed the box closed.


	3. Track 3

Pockets was up early again this morning, but there was nothing that needed to be delivered today—at least not yet. He spent his time alone in the garage practicing martial arts with his skates. He was slowly getting a hang of using twisting motions and rotational momentum to add power to his strikes. The moves were awkward and unnatural feeling, but powerful without a doubt if executed correctly. A well placed kick from a solid rocketblade could end a fight instantly.

He twirled furiously, trying to get used to the nauseous feeling that was brought about by the constant spinning. He thought about how ice skaters would focus on a single object to avoid disorientation when spinning. In theory it appeared easy to emulate. In practice, he discovered there was much more to it than there seemed to be.

There was an old punching bag tucked away in one of the corners of the garage that would make for a decent sparring partner. Pockets focused on practicing punches and kicks on the bag for a while.

Meanwhile, another rudie watched him silently from a few steps away. It was a girl with short cropped hair and skin the color of creamed coffee. The black shirt she wore didn't quite cover her belly button even though the sleeves were a little too long for her. The other GG's called her Jazz.

"You're hopeless," She called out to Pockets with a smirk.

The boy turned around looking just a bit embarrassed at having been watched without his knowing. "What?"

Jazz advanced confidently. "Your form is terrible," she scolded him. A friendly smile betrayed the harshness of her words.

Pockets relaxed a little after realizing she was only teasing him. "Really?" he replied with a grin of his own. "I thought it was pretty good."  
"Well sure. It might be good enough against a street fighter, but against someone who really knows what they're doing…" She trailed off. She seemed to be suggesting something.

Pockets couldn't help but feel like she was challenging him. The self-assured look in her green eyes confirmed his suspicion. Yet, she was so small. She might have been more than half a foot shorter than he was and her baggy clothes couldn't disguise her unmistakably small frame. She couldn't possibly think she could actually beat him in a fight. He chuckled aloud and turned back towards the punching bag, giving it a few more swings.

"You know," Jazz interrupted him again. "Our fighting style is just a mixup of a bunch of other techniques."

"Yeah," he agreed. He knew this already. The rudies took inspiration from many different sources when developing their own combat style. It was a lethal combination of figure skating, break dancing, and a few other forms of martial arts. It focused on striking hard and striking first, but not much thought was given to defense. Though, that was probably to be expected of a bunch of undisciplined, teenage vandals who were forced to come up with their own form of hand-to-hand combat.

"Every rider puts his or her own spin on it when they fight," Jazz continued. "Have you ever heard of capoeira."

Pockets paused for a moment. "Capo… eda?", he pronounced carefully.

"Capoeira," Jazz corrected him. "It's a martial art that looks a lot like dancing. It was created by Brazilian slaves so that their masters wouldn't know they were actually practicing combat techniques. Sound familiar?"

"Kinda like skate-boxing," Pockets realized.

Jazz hummed in agreement. She explained how capoeira and the rudies' skate-boxing developed along similar paths, sharing many of the same circumstances of creation. Both were inspired by music and dance, relied heavily on rhythm, and were practiced in secret as a way to fight effectively without weapons. Despite all of their shared aspects, capoeira was not one of the influences for skate-boxing. All the similarities between them were merely coincidental. As it turns out, there were only so many ways to fight to a beat.

"I learned capoeira from my uncle back when I lived in Sao Paulo," Jazz concluded. "And skate-boxing is pretty much just a more crude form of capoeira. So when I came here, I actually never had to learn how to fight like a rudie. I just had to adapt to doing it while wearing skates."

"That's pretty impressive," Pockets remarked. "You wanna show me some moves?"

Jazz laughed dismissively. "Do me a favor," she requested as she raised a finger to her blue painted lips. "Don't tell nobody. I kinda don't want anyone else knowing my secret technique, you know?"

"So why tell me?" He asked.

"Look it up sometime," She suggested. "Maybe it'll help you. By the way, you're actually doing pretty good for a rookie."

"Thanks," Pockets said. "Practice makes perfect, right?"

"I meant with the whole rudie thing…" Jazz corrected him. "You're catching up quick."

Pockets furrowed his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean."

Jazz shot him a knowing look. "You really want me to tell you? I don't wanna hurt your feelings or anything," she teased him again. But then her playful tone turned into a more sincere one. "I can tell you're not like everyone else."

"How can you tell that?"

"I think you're really a good guy," she spoke earnestly now. "Just don't lose that for all this."

That was the last thing Jazz said before she swaggered off, ending the conversation. Where did she get that impression of him, Pockets wondered. Until today, they had hardly spoken more than a few words to each other. A simple 'hey' or 'wassup' as they passed one another was often as far as they got. Was that enough for her to get a sense of his character? It couldn't have been, but she wasn't wrong. He wasn't like the other rudies. They were all quirky and exciting and dangerous and bold all in the same vein. By comparison, he was just boring to be frank. He couldn't be sure whether his lack of personality was a result of his amnesia or if he was always this way. Whatever the case may have been, he did not belong. Whatever illusion of any rudie-like qualities he gave off was only through concerted effort. Aside from Yoyo, the other GG's were only just beginning to accept him after several weeks. It was good thing then, he supposed, that he was catching on fast. He had to fit in. He had to earn their trust. He had nowhere else to go.

He continued practicing on the weathered punching bag, but his strikes were weaker now. He could no longer focus. Jazz had broken his concentration and now his mind was somewhere else entirely. He was back in that park again early in the morning, peaking into that white box as the sun crested over the horizon behind him. The scene replayed in his mind with such vivid detail, he could almost smell the water of the koi pond running underneath the bridge where he met that woman—that peculiar woman who claimed to have already known him. It was strange how easily she gave up when he told her he couldn't remember her, though. She made no effort to jog his memory, she only demanded that he open the box.

Inside the box was a pair of rocketblades. They were brand new, never worn before, and they were exactly his size. He was mystified. If nothing else, it was solid proof that she did in fact know him. He didn't know how to react, fortunately for him, he didn't have to. Before he could muster up a coherent thought, the woman was already explaining herself. It was a gift, she told him. She had seen him making his way around that same area several times before on the ancient, busted up pair of buckets he dared to call rollerblades. Carrying a suspicious looking package plainly for anyone to see, it was obvious to her what he was doing. She had also heard from an undisclosed source that the GG's had just picked up a new recruit not too long prior and he fit the bill perfectly. So she arranged to have a package delivered to a discreet location in the dead hours of the night in order to avoid any unnecessary attention. She knew he would be the one to have to deliver it and she planned the whole time to give the contents to him. According to her, she just felt he needed an upgrade. She made him promise to keep their little meeting a secret and then she was gone.

Although he couldn't truly understand her motives, he appreciated the gesture. A brand new pair of rocketblades was worth way more than what he could afford at his current pay rate. He couldn't refuse. Still, the lack of monetary compensation for the delivery posed a bit of an issue for him. As part of his job, Pockets was required to pay a certain percentage of his earnings to Corn. It was kind of like a finder's fee. Because all of the deliveries were set up by and through the GG's de facto leader, it was only fair that he get a cut of the profits. It was how they kept the gang in operation and the only source of income Corn had. At the end of every day, Corn and Pockets divided up the earnings. Without any of the money the woman promised him, Pockets had to fill in the missing payment from that delivery with his own funds, and it wasn't enough. Luckily, Corn didn't notice at the time, but Pockets knew it wouldn't be long before he figured out a significant portion of his money was missing. He had to do something before that happened.

Pockets winced in pain as his flimsily closed fist collided with the rough leather bag. His index finger was throbbing awfully and it was already starting to swell around the knuckle. He had gotten so distracted that he relaxed his grip enough to jam his finger when he punched the bag. It was time to call it quits for the day. He rolled back over to the couch where he usually slept and took a seat, doctoring his finger the whole way there. It didn't hurt so bad as long as he didn't bend it, so he just held it stiff.

He glanced over at the backpack sitting next to him which he had been using recently to carry his shipments. Still inside it was the white box, and still inside that were the brand new pair of blades the woman had given him. He didn't dare open the box inside the Garage. He wasn't even supposed to still have it. He couldn't even wear the blades for fear that someone would ask how he was able to get his hands on them. He didn't have a feasible explanation worked out yet. Besides, he might end up having to sell them if he couldn't come up with the money to pay Corn. That would have to be a last resort though. He desperately wanted to keep them.

Pockets had been sitting there, so lost in thought, he barely took notice as the remaining gang members started to filter into the garage, filling it once again with life. The speakers pumped loud music through the air while more abstract, digital sounds from the arcade machines added to the ambience. The gentle hissing of aerosol paint cans could be heard, even through all the noise, as they released their contents onto a wall that had already been painted a million times over. As the lively atmosphere began to seep into his soul, Pockets decided it was time to finally make some new friends.

He spotted Jazz and Clutch sprawled out on a couch in front of a coffee table. The two of them were laughing over a couple of beers. Jazz looked noticeably looser after getting a little alcohol in her system. She sat hip-to-hip with the fiery haired rudie. Clutch was a bit of a rough looking dude. A stereotypical gangster in baggy clothes and a permanent chip on his shoulder. At least, that's how he usually was. Right now, Jazz and a few drinks had significantly softened his demeanor.

A slightly apprehensive Pockets sauntered over to their coffee table, prompting the two to pause their conversation. For a few awkward seconds, no one spoke.

"Sup," Pockets broke the silence.

"Hey," Jazz replied with a lazy smile as she raised a brown bottle up to her bright blue lips to take another sip.

Clutch looked at the newcomer with a cocky glint in his eyes. "So, you're the new guy, huh?" Clutched asked as he leaned back in his seat. "There's one thing you gotta understand..."Clutch spoke. With one hand, he held a bottle of the unlabeled liquor; the other hand he wrapped around Jazz, letting his fingers dangle off of her shoulder. "This," he proclaimed with reference to the girl, "is all mine."

Jazz flicked his hand away almost as soon as it landed. She gave Clutch a disgusted glare and scooted away from him, pouting. Apparently she wasn't _that_ drunk.

Clutch chuckled dorkily. "I'm just kidding!" He turned to Pockets. "Hey! Come take a seat!" he insisted as he moved over to free some space on the edge of the couch. He patted the cushion next to him vigorously.

Pockets wasn't sure if he was actually welcome or if that was just a tactful move to allow Clutch to get closer again to the object of his infatuation. Either way, it would've been rude now to not sit, so he did. He tried to look comfortable, though he was far from it. An unopened bottle sat on the coffee table in front of him. Without thinking, Pockets picked it up, popped the cap off, and downed a gulp of the brown liquid. It tasted horrible, but hopefully it would calm his nerves a little.

"'Ey!" Clutched yelled at him, "Who said you could drink my beer!?"

Pockets looked regretfully over at Clutch. He wanted to apologize to the fiery rudie and defuse the situation, but he couldn't help feeling like doing so would make him look weak. A drunken rage was bubbling up in Clutch's eyes, but Pockets held his tongue in order to prevent permanent damage to his reputation.

Suddenly, Clutch broke into another dorky laugh. "I'm playing!" he cackled. "You know what? You cool with me Pockets." Clutch leaned in closer to him. "If any of these other guys tries to fuck with you, come get me. I got your back."

"Thanks…" Pockets said with a dry smile. Clutch raised his bottle in the air, prompting a toast. They touched glasses and simultaneously took another swig. Pockets had to take Clutch's words with a grain of salt, it could've been the alcohol talking for him. Nonetheless, he was happy that his introduction had gone relatively smoothly.

"...Just don't get no more beers," Clutch advised him.


End file.
